


shadows on the wall

by prosodiical



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/F, Identity Reveal, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-14 20:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4578633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosodiical/pseuds/prosodiical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karen's life is just falling into a steady beat again when she and Claire are almost kidnapped off the street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shadows on the wall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [100demons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/100demons/gifts).



> Warnings for canon-typical violence and kidnapping. This got a bit away from me, plot-wise - I hope you like it!

Claire's phone is buzzing on the nightstand. Karen yawns, nudging her, but Claire's already shifted to awake, blinking at the glow of the screen in the dark. It lights up her face in an eerie blue, the slight stress lines around her eyes deepening as she frowns, and Karen says, her voice still sleepy, "Hospital?"

"Yeah, afraid so," Claire says, and leans over to press a kiss to Karen's mouth; Karen threads a hand through the hair at the nape of her neck and keeps her there a little longer. When Claire pulls back it's with a regretful sigh, and she says, "I'll see you later."

"Be careful," Karen says, and she catches the flash of Claire's smile in the streetlights through the gap in the curtains, soft and fond. There's a quiet warmth in Karen's chest that makes her smile back, just the same.

"Always."

By the time Karen's alarm rings, Claire's long gone, so she doesn't have to worry about hiding the gun in her purse as she double-checks it's loaded. She's got pepper spray and a knife as well, but sometimes all she can see is Wesley's body, bleeding out - and think, _that could have been me_. It's a just-in-case measure, like the way she checks over her shoulder and locks all the doors, even though Foggy keeps being surprised when he can't get into the office without a key. 

Karen's locked the door again today, of course, but she opens it when Foggy knocks. He's picked up a trio of coffees from the local café, "The only one Matt likes," he's said many times, loudly, as though looking to make a point, and Karen laughs again and says, "You know he's not here yet? Thanks."

"No new clients?" Foggy asks, and Karen shakes her head.

"Just the stalker case, and..."

"Fisk's, right?" Foggy says, "I've got it." He glances around, frowning, as Karen starts back to her desk, and that's when the door opens again - she whips around, the coffee in her hand sloshing over the rim, her heart beating a mile a minute - but it's just Matt.

Smiling tightly, Karen puts a hand on her chest. "You scared me," she says, with a laugh she doesn't quite mean.

Matt looks like he has a black eye under his sunglasses, and he's leaning heavily on his cane. "Sorry." He faces her, a frown lurking on the corners of his mouth, but Foggy takes a look between them and saves her.

"Here," he says, and shoves the cup into Matt's hand, "from the only place you don't complain about, so don't you dare. Especially after you said you'd be fine walking home by yourself last night."

"Yeah," Karen says, relieved for the change in topic, "what happened to you?"

Matt turns his face pointedly away and Foggy says, "Sorry, buddy, but everyone can see that black eye."

"Did you get into a fight?" Karen asks.

"Yeah," Matt says, with a wry smile, "with the pavement. It won, I think."

Karen thinks it's probably a lie; it's a challenge to get a black eye from falling, and while Matt's knuckles are as bruised as ever he never seems to have scraped palms. "You should be careful," she says instead, lightly chiding, and Matt's mouth twitches into a smile.

"Maybe I'll get you to walk me home," he says, half a joke, and Karen smiles and ducks her head, unconsciously.

"Wow, smooth," says Foggy, eyebrows raised, and Karen laughs.

"I've moved, actually," she says. "Blood on the carpet, you know, but I'm not in the same direction anymore. Sorry."

"Oh?" says Matt, and Foggy looks at her curiously, and Karen can't help the rush of warmth to her cheeks as she thinks of what she has now, the sheer comfort of living with Claire, in her apartment, in her bed.

"It's still new," Karen says, biting back her smile, but Foggy waggles his eyebrows at her. "I don't know, we'll see. But she's great."

"Karen," Foggy says, fake-serious, "you should be ashamed, perpetuating the stereotype of lesbians who move in after just one date - " and stops when she punches him lightly in the shoulder, laughing.

"Shut up, no," she says, "it's been months, I swear," and pointedly turns away from him to meet Matt's raised fist in a bump.

"Congratulations," he says, "I think she's been good for you," and Karen ducks her head, smiling.

"Thanks."

 

It had started when Karen decided to go to a different bar, nothing on her mind but drinking until her head buzzed, until she didn't have to remember - her heart racing, a steady _thump thump thump_ , Wesley's face across the table - and grabbed a seat, her head in her hands. It took less time to fade, already, and Karen wasn't sure if it was the memory or the fear of being found out which was worse; she downed her glass and was waiting for the too-familiar hazy buzz of alcohol to descend when someone slid into the seat beside her.

"Bad day?"

"Bad month," Karen said, with a huff of a laugh, and looked up. The woman next to her was stunning, put together so well Karen felt self-conscious about the mess of her hair and the half-hearted way she'd done her makeup, and also a little familiar. "Have we met before?" Karen asked, and then realised how that sounded and winced, bringing her palm to her forehead. "And I didn't mean that as a bad come-on, I swear."

"No," said the woman, with a laugh, "you might have, with the bombings - I work in the ER."

Karen studied her in the dim light of the bar, the tight lines around her eyes, stress worn heavy, and said, "Bad month for you too, huh?"

"You've got no idea." Shaking her head with a rueful smile, she met Karen's gaze and offered a hand. "Claire."

"Karen," said Karen, clasping her hand in her own. Claire's fingers were long and deft, calloused on the pads of her fingertips, and as Claire ran her thumb over Karen's knuckles and gave her an unmistakably flirtatious look Karen ducked her head, smiling unbidden. "Can I get you a drink?" she said, pulling her hand back with reluctance, and Claire smiled.

"Of course," she said. "To having better days in the future."

"Oh," said Karen, "I think this one's looking up already."

And it was looking up even further when Karen was pressing Claire against the door to her apartment, greedily catching her laughter in her mouth; Claire gasped, "Okay, okay, let me get the door - " and Karen giggled into the soft curve of her neck as Claire fumbled, then succeeded, the lock clicking open. They tumbled into Claire's apartment without fanfare, and Karen turned back to make sure the door was locked as Claire tugged her hair out of its loose ponytail, mussed to indistinction. "Come on," said Claire, "bedroom's this way," and she pulled Karen close as though she couldn't get enough of her, shared open-mouthed kisses until Karen laughed, breathless, pulling back.

"Weren't we going," she said, and Claire said, "Right, of course," and pressed her mouth to Karen's, a kiss that left her breathless and wanting, before she tugged Karen down a hallway to her room.

It was dimly lit, the lights from the city diffuse through the glass, and Karen pulled away to shut the curtains and check the windows under the cold ache of paranoia. Claire's windows were shut and locked already, her curtains thick and dark, and when Karen turned back she could only see the shadow of Claire, her white blouse falling off her shoulders, the dark hollows under her collarbones. "Karen?" said Claire, and Karen crossed the distance between them, pressing her mouth to the join of her shoulder, the column of luminous skin under the fall of her dark hair.

"Yes," Karen said, "please."

A few hours later, Karen opened her eyes to the dawn edging through a small gap in the curtains, casting long shadows across the room. Thinking about getting up and dressed and out, she must have shifted too far as she sat up; Claire, hair mussed and eyes half-shut, made a curious, throaty noise that made Karen bite back a smile. "I was just," Karen said, and Claire reached out, her long nimble fingers around Karen's wrist.

"Stay," said Claire, "for breakfast, at least."

"Well," said Karen, and she let herself be pulled back as Claire tugged her down, their mouths sliding together as Claire trailed a questing hand up Karen's thigh. "I suppose I could." 

Breakfast lead to dates: catching up over coffee and Karen ducking her head to hide the flush rising in her cheeks as Claire gave her a wicked look that told Karen precisely what she would like to do with her tongue; a terrible formal dinner out until they left, appetisers cold on the table, to grab some pizza on the way back to Claire's; Karen, trying to find excuses to stay, meals and movies and Claire's warm, welcoming mouth until Claire, lying beside her, the yellow light of the lamp beside her casting long shadows across the curves of her breasts as she leaned forward, said, "Do you - not want to go home?"

"What do you mean?" said Karen, but she knew how much she'd been prevaricating. She'd taken Claire back to hers once, trying to ignore the way she'd always remember it, Danny bleeding out on the carpet. It was clean, now, bleached and unstained, the hole in the wall fixed and innocuous, but Karen would still stop in the doorway and see it like it was still there: a shade of her knelt on the floor, her hands covered in blood. That night, she'd kissed Claire with an unusual desperation; the memories catching up to her as she pulled them to her bedroom, as she laid Claire out on her bed and kissed her way up her thighs until all she could think of - all she could feel - was Claire. Claire hadn't said anything then, perhaps seeing the look on Karen's face, the fear she couldn't quite hide, but now she was giving Karen a speaking look, and Karen couldn't help but look away under the weight of her gaze. "It's a long story."

Claire made a noise, half-laugh, half-curiosity, and it was the open, nonjudgmental look on her face that had Karen's mouth twitch, a little wry, as she sighed. "Well, you know the Union Allied thing?"

 

After that, it had been easy, as Karen's things slowly migrated, as Claire rolled her eyes at her over dinner and said, "You know, you can move in, if you want," and they'd sorted out Karen's furniture as Karen let her rent lapse. They'd put better locks on the doors, argued over which couch to keep and the patterns on the curtains and plates. There were still things Karen didn't know about Claire, like the source of the scars that made Claire's expression go far and distant when Karen traced them with her fingers, the suspiciously well-stocked first-aid kit and the blood that wouldn't quite come out of the upholstery, but it wasn't as though Karen didn't have her own secrets. They would all come out, in time.

Or - not so much time, Karen thinks. She's walking down a night-dark street home from work when it happens, late from the office with the Fisk case taking up their time, Matt and Foggy still there when she left. She notices it slowly: the car, dark and unassuming but circling the area; Karen pulls out her phone as though she's checking her messages and takes a quick photo, just in case. She's got one hand in her purse, her steps quick as she tries to think of whether she should circle around and come back, _but of course they know where I live_ running through her head when - "Karen?"

Claire's smile drops as she falls into step beside Karen, seeming to pick up on Karen's anxiety even though Karen forces a smile. "You got off early?" Karen asks, and Claire nods, her gaze darting around.

"Is something wrong?" Claire asks, and she puts a hand on Karen's arm, a warm spot against the chill of the air through Karen's thin blouse. "What's..."

Karen almost falters when it happens; Claire's attention is caught by something, her fingers on Karen's arm tightening in warning which makes Karen notice just in time. The man who grabs her does it like she's been grabbed before, her shoulder wrenched back and chloroform over her mouth and she holds her breath, clicks the safety off the gun in her bag and shoots back. The recoil shudders through her and the man stumbles back, the spurt of his blood hot against Karen's skin, and she drops her purse and gasps for air that isn't sickly sweet as she shoves him away. He's swearing viciously as he clutches his hip, falling against the wall, almost as much as the man struggling against Claire, putting up a fight as her face turns a furious red; Karen breathes out and aims and fires. 

Claire's woozy as she straightens, and Karen steps forward to steady her, her gun still pointed at the men, one growing a slow pasty white as he sinks to the dirt-encrusted concrete in a pool of sticky blood. He tries to reach for his gun and Karen kicks it away, spinning out into the darkness. The other one she shot in the chest, close to his shoulder, and he clutches at the wound and eyes her with an intense hatred. "Why are you after us?" Karen says, her voice tight and not quite shaking, and he spits at her feet.

"You fucking bitch," he says, "we fucking knew it was you," and Karen feels the dread like a punch to the stomach, the blood draining from her face. He must see it because he laughs, a short sharp noise that makes Karen step forward.

"Who sent you?"

"You did it," he says, "didn't you?"

Claire steps forward too, her hand on Karen's arm, her face a mask. "Your friend will bleed out in a few minutes," she says, neutral, and Karen shoots her a sharp glance. "Or we could just leave you both here for our local vigilante."

The man laughs until he starts coughing, blood splattering over his uninjured hand. "No," he says, "failure isn't an option," and that's when Karen realises the hand was curled around a pill.

"No," she breathes, but when Claire's eyes widen and she drops to the ground, hands on his chest Karen knows it's too late by the haze in his eyes; his head lolls and Claire shakes her head, already tearing strips from her shirt.

"I can tourniquet this one," she says, "here," and Karen can't quite meet her penetrating gaze over the unconscious body of the man she shot first, over the corpse a few feet away. They work in a strange extended silence until Claire rocks back on her heels with a sigh. "He'll live, probably," she says.

"Then," Karen says, and Claire shakes her head.

"No," she says, "I guess you could say - I know a guy."

 

Karen doesn't hear the call but the conversation afterwards doesn't happen once they're safe behind their walls; instead it's her and Claire, scrubbing blood from their skin and clothes in the bathroom, Karen unsure what to say. She looks at Claire again, the tight lines of her face, the pull of her eyebrows that Karen just wants to smooth away, and wonders if that's her problem, too. "I guess," she starts, a little hesitantly, "you want to know what that was about," and Claire meets her eyes and offers a smile, reluctant but present, more than Karen could hope for.

"Later," she says, and she seems to see the worry Karen is trying to hide because she reaches out, smoothing away the lines in the corners of Karen's eyes. "But I never said - thank you."

Karen says, confused, "For - for what?"

"Well," says Claire, smile wry, "I think we were about to get kidnapped."

Karen can feel the unexpected, slightly hysterical amusement welling up and she lets out a huff of a laugh; Claire leans forward and it catches between their mouths, shared breaths in a closed space as Karen tugs her closer, but too soon Claire pulls away. "Come on," Claire says, "we should get a little better dressed."

Karen's about to ask why when there's a thump and crash on the floor out in the hallway, and Claire winces and says, "You should, at least."

"Your friend?" Karen asks, and Claire makes a strange face, resignation and worry and fondness rolled into one.

"Something like that."

Karen doesn't know what she was expecting when she rounds the hallway corner, pulling a sweater over her head, but it probably isn't Claire with bandages in her hands, Daredevil's costume pulled up across his chest to reveal the start of bruises around his ribs. His costume is garishly red, strange and reflective compared to the last time Karen saw him, black from head-to-toe, and Daredevil tilts his head as he swears under his breath. Claire notices and looks up, and says, "Hey."

"You're - you know each other?" Karen says, startled, and Claire flicks a look at Daredevil before she smiles up at Karen, tight.

"I patch him up sometimes," she says. "What did you find out?"

"They're fanatics," Daredevil says, his voice on the edge of a growl. "No names. It's worse than Fisk."

"The people who attacked us?" Karen asks, and he tilts his head at her, gaze shadowed under the cowl. "Then," she starts, but Daredevil cuts her off with a shake of his head and a hiss of breath through his teeth as Claire tightens the bandage around his ribs, reaching for antiseptic for the gaping cuts on his back. Karen realises then it's obvious why he needs someone, but she doesn't know how to feel about that someone being Claire.

"Just," he says, "watch out." He raises his head and Claire meets his eyes for a moment as her mouth twists.

"We will."

 

Later, Clare's voice is quiet as she cradles a mug of hot chocolate in her hands, stilted as she tries to explain. "It wasn't - everyone thought he was a murderer for a while," she says, "but..."

"No," says Karen, but she can feel the truth of herself as a lead weight in the pit of her stomach. _Self-defense_ , she reminds herself, as though if she thinks it enough it'll be true. "No, I get it. He saved me once, remember?"

Claire meets her gaze, then huffs a wry laugh. "Yeah," she says, "but you've saved yourself, too." She reaches out a hand and Karen meets it halfway, entwining their fingers. When Claire kisses her she tastes of chocolate and sugar, and Karen tries not to feel guilty as she twines her fingers in Claire's hair, closing her eyes as she sighs.

"I," Karen starts, but it aches to even think about saying it out loud. Claire studies her and shakes her head.

"No," she says, "it's okay. You can tell me when you're ready. They're - they're after you, aren't they?"

Karen thinks of the dead man who spat at her feet, the cold realisation that she hadn't gotten away with it, after all. After Ben died she'd gone over her actions almost obsessively, all the mistakes she made too amateur but too obvious if she tried to erase them; now, she knows, it's starting to come back to her in full force. "I didn't want to drag you into this."

"Hey," says Claire, and puts a finger under her chin, tilting Karen's head up. Claire's expression is resigned but fond - familiar, Karen thinks, and smiles somewhat despite herself. "I got myself in this, too. We'll get through it."

"Well, now that we've got a vigilante on our side," Karen says, trying for lightness, and Claire huffs a laugh and pulls her close. Karen closes her eyes as she buries her face in the curve of Claire's neck, Claire's arms tightening around her, and she thinks they just might.

 

A few days later Karen's at the office when Foggy suggests they head out on the weekend, catch some drinks. "You just want to give her the third degree," Karen says, when he not-so-subtly hints at bringing Claire, 'the mysterious girlfriend', and Foggy raises his eyebrows at her.

"No, how could you think that," he says, and grins. "Well, maybe. Who else is going to play the big brother role for our dearest secretary - Matt?"

"I'm your only secretary," Karen laughs.

Matt tilts his head toward them, his expression long-suffering. He's been walking stiffly the last few days, and Karen's not sure if she should ask him and get another bullshit response. "I'd rather not," he says, sounding wry. "How about going back to work?"

"Now, now," Foggy says, "all work and no play makes Murdock a dull, dull boy," and he reaches out like he's about to hit Matt on the back, then stops and puts a hand on his shoulder instead. Something clicks in Karen's mind then, and she thinks: _really?_ But Matt sighs and shakes his head and Karen's all too glad he can't read her expression because it takes her a moment to wipe the bemusement from her face.

"I suppose we could," Matt says. "Karen?"

"I - yeah," Karen says, still a little startled, "I can probably talk her into it."

"You should warn her about the inquisitor here," Matt says, and shoves at Foggy unerringly; Foggy sighs, put-upon, and gives Karen a smile.

"Seriously," he says, "it'll be good to meet her. You've been happier lately."

Karen ducks her head, hiding her smile. "You're killing me," she says, "I'm going to have to take Matt's advice here - "

"No, don't - " Foggy says loudly, and Karen grins and steps back out of Matt's office, her hand threateningly on the door.

" - you should too," she says, "there's work to do!"

 

But they don't quite get there, in the end. It's a cool Saturday morning when Karen meets up with Claire to grab a coffee, a light shrug on over her blouse, and she's trying to explain Foggy's particular brand of care to her as they head down the sidewalk, hands entwined. She knows why she didn't expect it - the bright sunlight, the unthreatening bustle of people going about their day - but it means that when she wakes up, her whole body aching in time to the pounding in her head, she's kicking herself.

She's in a warehouse or something, she thinks; the walls are far, shadows long and dark under a flickering electric light. Her hands are tied behind her back, rope she can't wear through. Karen's hair is a curtain around her face and she peers through it, but whoever is standing in front of her, pointed expensive shoes and smelling lightly of perfume, must notice she's awake. There's a gesture out of the corner of her eye and Karen gasps for air as she's hit in the stomach, the breath knocked out of her as she struggles against the pain. The thug who hit her steps back, his hands back on his gun.

"Claire," Karen manages, and the woman sighs.

"I thought you might be more inclined to be agreeable," she says, and Karen looks up. She's dressed impeccably, and Karen recognises her immediately: Vanessa Marianna. "After what you did to dear Wesley..."

Karen can see Claire now. She's behind Vanessa's line of sight, unconscious against the wall with a man covering her with a gun, and Karen bites her tongue to keep from saying anything. "It was you, wasn't it?" Vanessa asks, almost conversational. "I assume he uncovered your visit to Wilson's mother with that... unfortunate reporter. How did you manage it?"

"How did I manage what?" Karen asks, her heart in her throat. Claire stirs the slightest bit, but the man guarding her is more interested in watching Karen and Vanessa; she'll have to keep it that way.

"Killing him," Vanessa says. "I imagine he found your talent for survival worth recruitment."

"It was a little like this," Karen says. Her pulse is racing; the light flickers. "He caught me the same way, but he wanted to talk to me privately; just me and him, no - hired thugs." She fixes her gaze on Vanessa's face, as calm as stone. "So he sat me up, like this: me in a chair, him across a table from me, face-to-face. I was drugged still - or at least, he thought I was."

Vanessa's eyes close for a moment; far behind her, Claire is gently lowering the guard to the floor. "He hated getting his hands dirty," Vanessa says, and she smiles at Karen, a dangerous expression. "You took advantage."

"Wouldn't you?" Karen says, and she knows she's struck a nerve, Vanessa's eyes narrowing. "He put his gun on the table between us - and when his phone rang..."

"You're eminently lucky you got away with it," says Vanessa, "at least, until now."

"Well," says Karen, and that's when a shout rises up and the lights flicker, then flicker out.

She knows why he does it, now: evening the score. The flicker of red out of the corners of her eyes is gone as she blinks, waiting until her eyes adjust. All she has in the meantime is the sound of flesh hitting flesh; Vanessa's sharp order, "Don't shoot!" lost in the noise, shots fired into the dark. 

A rustle of warmth brushes her arm and Karen stills until it slides down to her hands, Claire's voice at her ear. "Fancy meeting you here," she teases, something sharp and cold working on the rope around Karen's wrists, and Karen bites back a near-hysterical laugh.

"My hero."

"I'm just returning the favour." When Karen's hands are free Claire brushes soothing fingertips over the welts on her wrists and Karen pulls her in for a kiss, fumbling blind in the dark. Claire's mouth curls into a smile against hers, and she twines their fingers together as the light flickers back on.

They rise to their feet together, and Karen looks over the ruin of an operation, Daredevil stalking toward them. "Vanessa?" she asks, and he shakes his head.

"Escaped in a car," he says, and Karen can hear the frustration in his voice. "You. You killed Wesley?"

"I killed him in self-defense," Karen says, and she thinks she almost believes it by now; Claire's hand tightens around her own and when Karen meets her gaze she knows there'll be long conversations in their future. But Claire's here, now, alive and mostly-well, and that's worth everything that'll come. "Thanks," she adds, belatedly, and Daredevil inclines his head.

"You should get home."

 

It's a little late when they finally get to Josie's, but Karen called ahead: "We got held up," she'd said, and Foggy didn't have to know it was with a touch of irony. He'd just made an agreeable noise, "Matt'll be running late, too," and left Karen smiling a bit wryly at her phone.

When Karen opens the door she takes a moment to spot Foggy and Matt, laughing over drinks, and that's the moment Foggy spots her, too. He waves them over and Claire looks startled, like there's something she just realised. Foggy does, too, but he blurts, " _You're_ Karen's girlfriend?" like they know each other before he realises. "Oh, sorry, we haven't been introduced properly. Foggy Nelson."

"Of," says Claire, a touch of humour in her voice, "Nelson and Murdock?"

"The very same," he says, and Karen looks pointedly between them, trying not to laugh as Foggy immediately, awkwardly tries to cover. "I mean, yes, that's us, did you hear about us on the news?"

"Foggy," Karen says repressively, biting back her grin, and Matt chimes in:

"Sorry about him, foot-in-mouth syndrome, you know."

Clare's eyebrows have risen to her forehead, but she's smiling, and Karen nudges her discreetly when she says, "So you know each other?" with a look that has Claire swallowing laughter.

Foggy looks between them, a complicated expression on his face as he stares at Matt. "Yes - no - "

Matt's face is a study in amused resignation. "Okay," he says, "who told you? Hey," he protests mildly, as Karen starts laughing despite herself, "it's not that funny, you should have seen Foggy when he found out - "

"Hey!" Foggy protests.

Claire asks, "You didn't think you'd keep it a secret forever?"

A mulish expression falls over Matt's face, and Foggy shakes his head and sighs. "Welcome to the club," Foggy says, and drops an arm around each of their shoulders, pulling them toward the bar. "Secret Keepers Anonymous, that's us. And you know what? Tonight, drinks are on me."


End file.
